Confection
by RichelleBrinkley
Summary: There is something about Richelle Brinkley, something that seeks to remind him of confection. / Or, four times Tom makes Richelle blush... and one time she makes him.


**Title: **Confection

**Author: **RichelleBrinkley

**Word Count: **3,645

**Rating:** K+

**AN: **I'm back after an unintentionally long break to write for another fandom. This is a 4x1 piece, and the gang are perhaps around 16-17 (and also slightly more prominent in this story than any of my others).

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Raven Hill Mysteries_, it belongs to Emily Rodda.

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_Four times Tom makes Richelle blush...and one time she makes him. _

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She has never liked Tom Moysten much. Loud, clumsy and with an obnoxiously big mouth that never fails to get him into trouble, Tom is the kind of person Richelle doesn't like to be associated with, mostly out of fear of embarrassment. He eats too much, dresses too sloppily, and for the life of her, Richelle can never understand why he finds his so-called "jokes" to be even remotely funny.

But there is this one thing about Tom Moysten, one minute detail that makes Richelle's ears warm undeniably and jaw tense ever-so-slightly whenever it crosses her mind.

Tom Moysten never fails to make her blush.

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_i._

She usually avoids eating sweets. Sure they taste good, and there is definitely something delightful about glass jars filled with colourful liquorice sticks and marble-patterned humbugs, but for the sake of her teeth and her growing distaste for anything she deems to be "too fattening", Richelle never really lets herself indulge in sticky confections.

Tom does.

It infuriates her to see how he can devour chocolate after chocolate, candy bar after candy bar, and still maintain the same tall, lanky build.

Secretly, Richelle wishes she could do that.

They are in the Confectionery one breezy summer day, the sun glowing almost absurdly bright and the white sconces in the shop even brighter, if possible.

Richelle chews her lip as she watches the others fawn over marshmallows and spun sugar and lemon drops with child-like enthusiasm, Tom especially.

In fact, when they finally leave the store over half an hour later, the sheer amount of candy the infuriating boy has managed to buy the shopkeeper out of has Richelle sincerely worried for Tom's future state of health.

When she tells him this, chastising his enormous appetite for sweet foods and levelling a disapproving stare in his direction, Tom merely chuckles and plunges his hand into his paper bag of confectionery, pulling out a chocolate bar covered in vividly-printed, crinkly plastic wrapping.

He holds it out to her, waggling his hand slightly in encouragement.

Richelle looks away. "No, thanks."

Then something unexpected happens. Tom lets his hand drop partially, and Richelle turns to look at him in surprise as he gently nudges her hand out of the way to slip the chocolate bar into the pocket of her coat.

He winks at her, eyes alight with nothing but mischief and a hint of boyish playfulness.

"Save it, then. You'll thank me for it later, Princess."

She doesn't quite know why, but this is the first time that Richelle realises that Tom Moysten is all too capable of making her blush.

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_ii._

If she is to be honest with herself, Richelle would probably say that Sunny Chan is a fundamentally better person than she is. Sunny is practical, calm and intelligent, alert and brave.

She, on the other hand, is skittish and stereotypically blonde, vain and all too concerned with the superficial.

Sunny Chan is also, Richelle has come to notice, quite fond of Tom Moysten.

She often sees the two of them together, laughing and joking around, Sunny's small frame a comical contrast against Tom's gangly height.

She doesn't know why, but the sight of this slightly unsettles her.

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She finds herself sitting with the two of them one day at the Glen, after Nick, Liz and Elmo leave to talk to a potential client. Elmo calls the three of them the 'Dream Team'; with Nick's smooth charm, Liz's gushing enthusiasm, and Elmo's own sensibility and tactfulness, the three are what Elmo describes as the 'perfect' combination to impress people interesting in hiring Teen Power Inc.

Being left with Tom and Sunny is, quite frankly, a bore. Sunny does her stretches against the trunk of a large maple tree, whilst Tom predictably whips out his sketchpad and doodles away, chewing in the rubber end of his pencil every now and then.

For the most part, Richelle carefully examines her nails for any new chips in the manicure, and meticulously fluffs out and smooths down her hair.

And then, out of things to do, she fidgets. Her eyes flicker aimlessly from the trees to the wild flowers dotting the grass, to Sunny twisting her body into painful-looking positions and Tom, his brow furrowed in concentration, pencil flying over the smooth ivory page of his sketchpad.

She shuffles over to him, peering over his shoulder more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.

What she sees surprises her. Tom has drawn the Glen in its current state, Sunny hanging upside-down from a tree, and her, Richelle, sitting against a nearby log. What surprises her most, however, is that Tom has not drawn her comically in any way; his sketch is one in realism style, with no hint of caricature in the lines.

She is not aware Sunny has made her way over to them until Tom smiles at something behind her and Richelle sighs to herself in annoyance. She dawdles back to her spot at the nearby log, rolling her eyes at Tom and Sunny who are laughing and joking and overall being far too cheerful than her current mood allowed for.

If it hadn't been for Liz commanding them all to stay put so they could iron out the technicalities of their potential job afterwards, Richelle would by no doubt have left by now. In fact, she decides to leave anyway, regardless of what Liz had insisted.

"Richelle?" She hears Sunny call after her as she walks from the Glen, away from her and Tom. Rifling in her pocket, Richelle finds some change, and counts out enough for a hot chocolate.

"I'm going to the Black Cat," she calls to Sunny over her shoulder, "Just tell Nick to call me about the job later. In fact, tell him to meet me at the cafe when he gets back."

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Nick arrives thirty minutes after she'd sat down and ordered her hot chocolate, but not alone. Tom is slouching behind him, and Richelle turns to him confusedly as he sits down opposite her. "What are you doing here, Tom?"

Tom looks at her and raises his eyebrows. "I want a coffee."

"You don't drink coffee."

"I might."

"You don't."

"Yeah, but I might."

"Guys, shut up," Nick grumbles irritably. "Moysten, why did you follow me to this cafe?"

"Why, Nicky, I just couldn't stand to be apart from y–" At Nick's poisonous glare, Tom skilfully retracts, raising his palms in surrender. "Okay, okay. I don't want to go home, see. Brian's there and he's keen to go over my history essay with me. The history essay I haven't written." Nick rolls his eyes heavenwards.

"Well anyway, Richelle, the new client wants her three dogs walked every weekday and her cat taken to the groomer's once a week on Tuesdays. Elmo's offered to do that because, as we all know, he adores cats. As for the dogs, we all get one day a week, minus Elmo because of his cat duties. You're on Thursdays." Richelle grimaces, but nods. She is not fond of dog-walking jobs.

Tom is staring around the cafe at people's food and sighing wistfully. This annoys Richelle to no end, and she eventually snaps at him, "_Stop it_, Tom. It's bad enough you came here because you didn't do your homework. You don't need to sigh every two seconds and annoy me and Nick, too."

"But I'm _hungry_," Tom whines pathetically. "I haven't eaten since–"

"Oh _shut up_, Moysten," Nick sneers, flagging down a waiter. "I'm getting a hot chocolate. Do you want anything, Richelle?" Richelle looks at Tom, who is looking at Nick crestfallen, probably annoyed that he has money to buy food when Tom doesn't.

She makes up her mind. "A plate of biscotti, please."

When their orders arrive, Richelle tugs on Nick's arm. "Let's go for a walk down the High St, I want to see the new clothing boutique that's opened up." She smiles hopefully up at him and bats her eyelashes.

Nick smiles back.

"Sure." He grapples in his pocket for a ten dollar bill which he leaves on the table, before allowing Richelle to slip her arm through his and they leave the restaurant together.

"Oh! Hang on; I've forgotten something back there." Richelle unhooks her arm from Nick's, flashing him an apologetic smile as she slips quickly back into the cafe.

As she expected, she finds Tom devouring her untouched plate of biscotti. He looks up sheepishly as she crosses her arms, staring pointedly at him.

"I, uh, didn't want to let it go to waste?" he mumbles through a mouthful of the delicate almond biscuits, hastily making to wipe at his mouth with a napkin.

Richelle raises her eyebrows at him. "Are you going to thank me?"

Tom looks at her in mild confusion. "Wait, you left me this on purpose? Biscotti is my favourite, too."

She nods absentmindedly, "I know."

Tom is looking at her with something almost akin to admiration in his gaze; she meets his eyes steadfast, unblinking and resolute.

After a moment, she looks away, "I should get going. Nick's waiting outside." And then Tom is looking back down at his food and she is turning her back on him, hands self-consciously smoothing down her hair and clothes as she walks away.

"Thank-you," she hears Tom call after her. The corner of her mouth lifts in an almost-smile, and she chances a glance back over her shoulder. Tom is happily eating the rest of his biscotti, but grins to her and waves.

Blushing slightly, she makes her way back outside, to Nick who is still waiting.

"Sorry about that."

He looks at her puzzled. "Are you blushing, Richelle?"

"No," she says, "It's just the cold."

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_iii._

They may have been best friends since kindergarten, but these days Richelle finds herself having less and less in common with Liz Free more and more.

For example, Liz is obsessed with pleasing other people.

Sure, Richelle wants other people to be happy too, but first and foremost, shouldn't she put her own happiness before theirs?

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One day, they get a job for a neighbour of Sunny's, and the gang are handed rubber gloves and smocks and sponges and set to work cleaning a previously unused loft.

It's dusty and dirty and everything Richelle hates in a job. She complains and sneezes, but it is clear even to her that nobody could care less about her discomfort.

She perches on the edge of the windowsill, the only clean spot she can find, and picks at the lint on her sweater whilst the others scrub and sweep and mop and dust. They all shoot her annoyed glares, and Sunny keeps sniffing disapprovingly, which almost drives Richelle insane.

Finally, Tom looks up from where he is knelt on the floor, soapy sponge in hand, and says irritably, "Richelle, aren't you going to help us out?" He holds the sponge out to her.

She starts to say _no, of course not, she doesn't want to get herself all sweaty and dirty_, but the words die in her throat when she happens to notice the tired lines on Tom's face, the perspiration dotting his hairline. And she cannot seem to look in his eyes without feeling the slightest bit guilty.

She struggles with words, the simple 'no' not quite able to slip from her lips.

So she looks at Tom hesitantly, her resolve wavering, and even when he clasps his palms together and blinks up at her in a mock beseeching manner, she rolls her eyes but can't quite deny him.

Sighing, she reaches back and ties her long blonde hair into a ponytail, before reluctantly slipping on some rubber gloves and a smock. Finally, with a loud, unhappy sigh, she reaches down and takes the soapy yellow sponge from Tom. She grimaces, but doesn't complain.

The rest of the gang watch the exchange in bewilderment.

"Moysten, what kind of power do you have over her?" Nick asks incredulously. Richelle blushes furiously, glaring at Tom when he winks at her and shoots her a mischievous smile.

Tom brushes his arm over his forehead. "Nothing that I know of, Nicky," he says, beginning to get to work again. "But perhaps she is infatuated with my natural charm and devastatingly good looks."

Nick throws his sponge at him.

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_iv._

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in." Nick's heavy drawl directs her attention towards the front of the cafe, and Richelle turns in her seat to watch as Tom Moysten shuffles through the doorway, covered head-to-toe in dirt and grime.

She wrinkles her nose.

Tom doesn't bother with a greeting—just pulls out a chair at the table she and Nick are occupying and tries (fails) to discreetly steal a piece of her muffin. And by piece she means the entire thing.

Upon closer inspection, Richelle realises that his temple is bruised an ugly purple, and dried blood crusts at the corner of his mouth, where his lip is split. His arms are peppered with scratches and cuts, and a long, nasty-looking graze adorns his neck, stretching to the collar of his T-shirt.

Nick notices too, and even his face falls a bit at Tom's battered state.

Subdued, Richelle gingerly pushes the rest of her half-eaten muffin towards Tom who devours it eagerly, mumbling a 'thank-you' through a mouthful of apple and cinnamon.

"Tom, what happened to you?" Nick asks warily, wincing slightly as his eyes follow a trickle of blood running down the other boy's hairline.

Tom takes another huge bite of the muffin before answering. Richelle cringes at his lack of manners, but she is too shaken by his bloodied appearance to focus much on his unmannerly eating habits.

"It was Bradley Henshaw and his gang. I ran into them on the way here and–" Nick's phone beeps shrilly, startling Tom into silence. Glancing at the text message, Nick curses rather loudly and reluctantly scrapes back his chair, digging out his wallet to throw a few coins onto the table.

"Sorry Richelle, I have to go. Ma needs some help at home." He shrugs into his jacket and fishes in his jeans pocket for his car keys, before leaning down to kiss her quickly on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow," he promises, "And you, Moysten, will tell me all about your beating another time. Bye."

Richelle watches as Nick leaves, smiling when he turns back and cheekily blows her a kiss.

"Wow. Nick sure does like you. No wonder you can put up with him, Kontellis acts positively _tame_ when you're around." Richelle narrows her eyes at Tom, annoyed, and even reaches out an elbow to nudge him—but stops herself just in time when she is met once more with the ghastly sight of his injuries.

Instead she just sighs, and gives Tom a stern stare. He merely shrugs back.

"It's true."

"Tom, what did Bradley and his gang do to you?" Reaching for a clean napkin, she unscrews the cap of her bottled water, pouring some onto the tissue. "Don't move."

Tom watches warily as she gently begins to dab at his various ailments, wincing now and again.

"Well, I may have gotten into a bit of an argument with Bradley after he tripped me up and called Teen Power a bunch of names. And I may have hit him. And gotten into a fight with him and the rest of his gang."

"They did all this to you? Tom, we need to tell somebody."

"No, no, Bradley did this," Tom points to the ugly bruise marring his temple, "And his gang managed to do nothing more serious than this," he gestures to his bloodied mouth.

Richelle glances up at him briefly, still focused on gently dabbing clean his many cuts and scratches. "But how did you get all _these_ then?" She gestures to his arms, covered in little red abrasions.

"Uh, I may have taken a shortcut through the Glen to get here. And I may have, uhm, slipped in the mud and fallen into a gorse bush," Tom mumbles sheepishly. Of course.

Shaking her head, Richelle discards the bloodied napkin and dampens another, this time gently cleaning away the blood from his temple and mouth. She can feel Tom's gaze upon her as her fingers dab carefully at his split lip, and hears him exhale shakily through his nose when her thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth.

She pulls away. "I think you're good now. Might want to get some antiseptic for that graze on your neck though."

Tom is still looking at her, and she keeps her gaze focused resolutely downwards as he murmurs, "Thank-you."

It is silent for a moment then, and Richelle doesn't know how, but as she shifts her gaze awkwardly around, her eyes land on her wrist, circled loosely by fingers larger than her own. As she watches, Tom's fingers hover gently over her pulse point, and she swallows as they press down lightly. The gesture feels oddly intimate.

Her phone buzzes, and the moment is broken. Richelle clears her throat awkwardly before bending down to retrieve her handbag from the floor, hiding the brilliant pink flush that has spread across her cheeks.

Tom's expression is strange; perhaps slightly confused and a little dazed, along with some other emotion Richelle cannot quite place.

She pushes back her chair, and feels his eyes release her.

"You know, Nick really does like you. You should probably put him out of his misery and just go out with him." Richelle's heart is beating erratically, and her mouth is dry.

She shakes her head slowly, one hand reaching back absentmindedly to smooth down her hair. "I don't know, Moysten," she has turned to leave the cafe, but her eyes find his again, as if drawn by a magnetic force. "I'd say that Nick has some pretty tough competition when it comes to my affections." And she cannot stop her eyes from lingering on his, a deliberate, silent message in their depths.

She leaves him like that, hurries from the cafe with her head down, hands fisted in her pockets. Her heart still flutters in her chest, her stomach still swoops.

Most of all, the pink stain still lingers on her cheeks.

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_v._

There is something about Richelle Brinkley, something that seeks to remind him of confection.

She calls him one day—a blustery, overcast day in mid-Autumn—and they meet up at the Glen and walk along the outskirts of town together. Tom gets the feeling that she suggests this route because she doesn't want any of the gang to see them together, and he wholeheartedly agrees. The questions that would arise if Liz, Sunny, or—God forbid—Nick saw them together, _alone_, well...Tom wouldn't hear the end of it for weeks.

The wind picks up as they stroll side-by-side, and Tom rubs his hands together as Richelle pulls her beanie down tighter over her hair.

There is an amicable silence, but Richelle finds that she enjoys the presence that Tom brings, and the calming gait of his steps beside her. They walk for what seems like forever, hunched against the barrelling wind, and Richelle slips her hands into the pockets of her coat, shielding them from the cold.

She finds something inside the left pocket—a vividly wrapped chocolate bar, courtesy of Tom a few weeks ago.

Unwrapping it, she holds it out to him. "Want a bite?"

Tom looks at the chocolate longingly, but shakes his head.

"I gave it to you. You should have it."

"Okay," she mumbles, and against her better judgement, takes a bite of the candy. There is caramel inside, surprisingly gooey and sweet. It sticks to her lips, and she has to swipe it away with her finger.

Tom is still looking from her to the chocolate bar.

"You know what, I've changed my mind. I do want some of that." So she holds the caramel-oozing confection out to him, and giggles when he tries to break off a small bit but ends up with most of the bar in his hand.

Tom laughs too, and holds the end of his piece out to her, gesturing her to take another bite. "Go on, have some more. You should eat sweets more often, you know. They're not that bad for you if you have them every once in a while."

She takes another bite as she watches him carefully, studies the lopsided, goofy smile that brightens his face, the way his eyes crinkle and his lips curl.

"You know, you kind of remind me of candy," Tom says thoughtfully.

"How? Do I give you toothaches and sugar rushes?"

"Not quite." He doesn't elaborate, so Richelle presses him.

"How then? What makes you think of candy when you look at me?" Still, he doesn't answer. She frowns.

The wind chooses that moment to blow her beanie off, and Richelle gasps as she looks frantically around to chase it down. Tom is laughing again, and when she turns back to glare at him, indignant, he takes her face between both his hands and leans down and kisses her, lips warm and with the sweet taste of caramel.

Richelle is momentarily stunned, but kisses him back readily, entwining her glove-clad hands behind his neck. She feels Tom smile into the kiss, and she smiles too, blinking shyly when they pull away.

"You remind me of a blue cashmere sweater," she says, much to Tom's confusion. "You're warm and you're comfortable and you bring out my best features."

Tom laughs, fingers still cradling the sides of her face, and what looks to be the hint of a faint pink blush tingeing his cheeks.

"And you remind me of confectionery. Sweet and indulgent and something I'm always craving."

And he kisses her once more.

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**AN: A bit too fluffy for my tastes, but I didn't think angst suited Tom and Richelle that much. Tell me what you think if you can (are you horrified with my choice of pairing?)**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Much love,**

**RichelleBrinkley xx**


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